


In Death, Sacrifice

by Sijglind



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grey Wardens, M/M, The Calling, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11099.html?thread=44079195#t44079195">this wonderful prompt</a> on the kmeme:</p>
<p>
  <em>"Act III, after saving Nathaniel. Anders leaves Kirkwall and his lover for his Calling. He doesn't tell anyone, he's just... gone one morning. Hawke doesn't know what to think until Varric tells him that he's been sighted with Nathaniel the day he left, then with the Wardens in Ferelden. After that, Hawke starts thinking that Anders just didn't have the guts to tell him that he didn't love him anymore, or never loved him at all; he may even toy with the thought that Anders left him for Nathaniel.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bitter and in pain, Hawke starts trash-talking Anders around his companions. They don't necessarily like it, but he did left without a word, didn't he? One day, Hawke does it when Warden!Carver is around. Carver, knowing what really happened because he was in Orzammar when Anders' party passed through to the Deep Roads, gets angry. Really angry."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Death, Sacrifice

The nightmares were getting unbearable. There was barely a night in which Anders got more than a couple hours of fitful sleep before he woke up, tangled in the sheets, covered in sweat and gasping for air while the echo of voices still whispered in his ears, singing, calling, beckoning; sweet promise and tempting relief.

By now, Hawke didn't even wake any longer.

Anders was incredibly relieved.

In the beginning, Hawke would be already awake when Anders finally shook off the nightmare's clutch, and he would find himself enveloped in Garrrett's arms, his voice raspy with sleep and low as he whispered words of comfort and love, waiting for Anders to calm down. Then he would ask the dreaded question, and Anders would shake his head, incredibly tired.

“What was it about?”

Often, Anders had said, “the Circle,” and that would be enough, because Hawke would see a small, dark and damp isolation cell in his mind's eye, or feel the Templar's boring gazes prickling on his own neck, or feel the crushing helplessness of a Holy Smite's aftermath, the emptiness of Mage Bane poison, when the magic was only inches away from his fingertips, but too far to reach, still. Hawke would be silent then, and nod, his eyes full of understanding and shared pain.

Sometimes, it made Anders feel bad about the lie.

But other times, he was glad, because when he said “the taint,” Garrett could never understand. He did not know the dreams full of a darkness that surpassed even that of the isolation cell, the coldness that was so much stronger than a Winter's Grasp, a coldness that reached so deep he could still feel it upon waking, his bones turned to ice inside him, making him shiver and feel like he would never be warm again. Hawke had never heard the voices, so ancient, so cruel, vile and malicious, oozing corruption, had never heard them call for him, sing a song in his mind that was entrancing and disturbing in equal parts. He had, and never would, feel the pull of the taint beckoning him to take his place.

Telling him it was time.

 

*

 

“Anders,” Nathaniel said, and to the others, to Hawke and Varric and Fenris, it was no more than a greeting, terse with the betrayal he no doubt felt, and surprised with seeing the Grey Warden deserter again here of all places, in the endless, darkspawn-infested tunnels of the Deep Roads.

To Anders, who knew Nathaniel, had fought at his side, had lived through the Joining with him, had bled with him and patched him up after, who had slain a Broodmother and defended Amaranthine back to back with him, it was not a greeting, but a promise.

Nathaniel knew, and when he looked at him, so did Anders.

Thus, when Nathaniel said, “Anders,” he meant,  _ it is time _ .

And when Anders replied, “Nathaniel,” he said,  _ I know _ .

 

*

 

One day, no more no less, that's what Anders asked of Nathaniel, and Nathaniel agreed with a curt nod, gaze flicking towards Hawke, who was currently talking to Delilah Howe, idle chitchat about Ferelden and the changes it had gone through under Queen Anora's rule. He thought he caught a glimpse of sadness and pity in the grey eyes, but it was gone too quickly for him to be certain.

“One day,” Nathaniel promised.

It was not much time, not enough—but when would it ever be? Anders still made the most of it, banished Justice to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind and ignored his yells about the Mages' Plight. That was someone else's responsibility now.

He followed Hawke to the Hanged Man and nursed a tankard of Corff's mystery brew while they played Wicked Grace. He listened to Isabela's innuendoes and laughed at Varric's jokes, ignored Fenris glares, and even bit back any comments on blood magic towards Merrill. He asked Aveline about Donnic, and smiled when she told him her husband was fine. He grinned when Hawke whined about Varric and Isabela being cheats when they took most of his money.

“You'll never learn, will you,” Anders told him with a grin as Hawke pouted and Isabela leaned in with a smirk showing off her teeth to say, “I hope he won't. Who else is going to pay for my drinks?”

He walked close to Garrett on their way home, letting him draw Anders against his side, even though it made walking a bit awkward. He relished the taste of Corff's terrible brew when Garrett pressed him against a wall in Hightown to kiss him with reckless abandon, cheeks hot from the ale and hands urgent as they pushed beneath Anders' coat.

In their bedroom, he stripped Hawke slowly, opening each clasp of his robes with tender care, kissing him after each one came loose. He covered Garrett's chest in kisses and let his hands roam, fingertips seeking out every sensitive spot he had learned of during their time as lovers, drinking in each gasp and moan greedily. He pulled Garrett on top of him and spread his legs, inviting him in and whispering Hawke's name endlessly as he moved inside Anders until they both reached their peek.

“Garrett, Garrett, Garrett.”

After, he allowed himself a moment of weakness, closed his eyes against the tears threatening to spill. Hawke was already half asleep, eyes closed and his breathing evening out as his arms tightened around Anders.

“I love you,” Anders whispered, and Hawke smiled, too tired to answer, but Anders already knew.

“I'll always love you,” Anders told him. “Please never doubt that.”

Garrett didn't answer, for he was already asleep.

 

*

 

Anders didn't take much with him. Of course, Nathaniel had told him to pack only the necessities, but even without his interference, there had not been much Anders wanted to keep anyway. It seemed all so unimportant, now that only the damp darkness of the Deep Roads lay ahead of him.

Unsurprisingly, his satchel was very light when he had packed it, holding only a change of clothes, some food and a waterskin. He left his mother's pillow behind, resting next to Hawke's head on their shared bed. The Tevinter Chantry Amulet went with him, hidden beneath his coat and carefully tucked away, resting against his heart.

In his mind, Justice raged when he threw the incomplete manifesto to the flames, watching as the parchment blackened and curled until it was devoured completely by the fire. Anders ignored the spirit and left before dawn, while the Hawke mansion lay still asleep, neither Bodahn nor Orana awake yet. Hawke's mabari whined when Anders walked past him, begging for attention and most likely a belly rub, but Anders didn't stop, because he knew if he gave in now, he would never find the strength inside himself again to keep on walking.

He only hesitated when the door feel shut behind him, and then he stood, listless, in front of the house he had called home for the last few years. Turning his back on it. Inside, he knew, Garrett was still sleeping, wrapped into too many blankets, black hair dishevelled, cheek pink with the imprint of his pillow, and Anders almost gave in.

For a long moment, he felt too weak to do this, too selfish to leave all this behind; a wonderful home, a group of companions with which he did not always agree, but nonetheless respected, loyal friends like Varric, or even Isabela. Love. He ached, suddenly, felt hollowed out, and wished he could just return to their bed and Garrett's embrace, could push his face into the crook of his neck, hear him breathing and feel his skin beneath his fingertips, listen to his heartbeat.

It was then that Nathaniel emerged from the shadows opposite him, clad in the Grey Warden armour, griffons on his chest in blue and grey, catching a stray beam of sunlight, the mystical creatures gleaming like a sun of their own.

Anders didn't look back as he began walking, not when he descended the stairs towards Lowtown, or when he climbed the ship's plank, and when they left the docks behind and sailed past the Gallows, he spared the cowering statues at the cliffs not even a glance.

He had turned his back on the City of Chains and all it ever held for him.

 

*

 

“Find him!” Hawke bellowed as he threw Varric's door open. His face was red and his breath short from running all the way from Hightown to the Hanged Man. Varric blinked against the sleep still clinging to his eyes, already opening his mouth to ask whom he was supposed to find, but then he saw the pillow, old and worn and hand embroidered, and he understood.

“Please,” Hawke whispered, and nearly collapsed. Varric was at his side in an instant, ushering him to the nearest chair and sitting him down, only leaving for a short moment to get Hawke something to drink and send an urchin with a message to his contacts and to Hawke's other friends. When he returned to his rooms, he found Hawke staring unseeingly at the pillow in his lap, fingers clenching and unclenching around it until the thin fabric was close to tearing.

Contrary to popular belief, dwarf hearts are not made of stone, and as he saw his friend sitting there, looking so lost and broken, Varric's broke in his chest.

“We'll find him, Hawke,” he promised.

 

*

 

They did not find Anders, for he was long gone. They searched in every nook and cranny the city had to offer, but they did not find Anders, not even a body, and slowly and surely, as day turned to dusk to night, the rest of his friends began to share Hawke's fear for Anders. Even Fenris agreed to depart for the Wounded Coast with Isabela to look for him. Money exchanged hands, but neither the Coterie nor the Templars had anything to do with Anders' disappearance. His clinic lay deserted, and Lirene hadn't seen or talked to Anders since before they had departed for the Deep Roads to look for Nathaniel.

And then it struck Hawke. Nathaniel, of course!

The Grey Warden was gone, and so was his sister. The Innkeeper, helpfully, told them the Grey Warden had departed the day before to return to Ferelden.

Hawke, his sight red with rage, helplessness, fear and confusion smashed half of his furniture, scaring Sandal until he began wailing and even yelling at Orana until she ran out of the door, crying and begging not to be punished.

Varric watched until Hawke had calmed down, unwilling to try and step in again, since his first attempt to calm him had been rewarded with a fireball that narrowly missed Varric and singed his left eyebrow. Only when Hawke sank to his knees in the middle of his destroyed living room, shards of glass and splinters of wood surrounding him, did Varric take a step towards his friend to lay one broad hand on his shoulder, squeezing until the first sob wrenched its way out of Hawke's throat.

“Why,” Hawke asked through his tears, and Varric merely shook his head.

He could give him no answer, but Hawke did not expect one, anyway.

 

*

 

An Urchin had seen them, yes, boarding a ship. Two men, one clad in Grey Warden armour and with black hair, the other blond and with feathers on his shoulders. Varric sent the boy off with a few silver and then sat down, folding his hands on the table's surface. He had suspected of course, but—

He shook his head, rubbing one hand over the stubble lining his yaw, hair scratching against the leather of his gloves.

“Why did you do that, Blondie,” he asked the room.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

 

*

 

Carver shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking around the tavern's tap room, but he couldn't make out Kurt's flaming red hair in the sea of heads around him. The Grey Wardens stood out, naturally, against the usual crowd of dwarves, but Kurt was still nowhere in sight since he had cried, “Eric!” and run off, leaving Carver standing awkwardly at the side of the room, watching on as Oghren challenged two of the Orlesian Wardens to a drinking game and subsequently drank them under the table. A group of Fereldan Wardens had surrounded them, watching as well, and now they were laughing wholeheartedly at the two men slumped on their seats, one of them drooling on the table, the other hanging half off the chair, while Oghren loudly called for more ale and belched even louder.

Tonight they were celebrating. What exactly, Carver wasn't sure, since the prospect of seeing a small group of their Brothers in Arms off for the Long Walk did not make him want to celebrate in any way. Kurt had talked about enjoying their last day before the Long Walk, drinking for the last time, laughing for the last time, that sort of thing. Carver could understand it, sure, but he still had problems imagining the older Wardens being able to laugh at all, with what lay ahead of them. That was why he was standing apart from the group, nursing his beer, which was warm and tasted terrible anyway, and the longer he watched, the more he saw that he was not alone in his feelings. Emanuelle, a Warden that had come to Ferelden to assist the few remaining Wardens after the Blight, was smiling, but it seemed strained and wary as he looked at Philippe, one of those that would part from them tomorrow. Alistair, too, was nursing his drink, his smile sad as he listened to Nathaniel, another one of those who were following The Calling into the depths of the Deep Roads. Nathaniel, of course, wasn't even close to smiling, but then again he smiled as good as never, and Carver was almost convinced Nathaniel Howe openly showing happiness would be a sign of Andraste's return. Or, perhaps, the end of days.

Carver sipped on his ale, grimacing when the taste filled his mouth. Dwarven ale was strong, of course, but Carver suspected that the dwarfs used the alcohol's strong taste to cover up the taste of the other ingredients, else, judging by the smell, not even Oghren would be willing to drink the stuff.

A draught of warm air brushed Carver's face, making him look away from Alistair and Nathaniel towards the door, where he found the Warden Commander had returned. Cousin Ava looked around the room with narrowed eyes, the odd upward streaks of her tattoo dancing like flames in the firelight. Carver shuddered, and immediately scolded himself for it. It was not that he was scared of her—although that would be nothing to be ashamed of, he had seen men piss their trousers beneath her glare—just that she had the strange power to make him feel incredibly inadequate whenever he was in her company.

He watched as Ava nodded curtly, once, and then strode determinedly towards the bar, bringing down her fist on the wooden surface, sovereigns clinking in her palm.

“Another round,” she bellowed, and it rung loud and clear even over the noise of celebration, like an order. For a moment, the tap room fell silent, and then someone cheered, the others joining in quickly. Ava nodded again, as if she was congratulating herself on a task well done, then turned around. Only now, Carver became aware of the man who had accompanied her into the room, and he was shocked and surprised to find the Warden Commander exchanging quiet words with Anders of all people. Carver nearly choked on his own spit.

The last time he had seen Anders had been on their trip through the Deep Roads, before they had found the Wardens and Carver had left with them. His memory of those last few days was muddy at best, kind of misty, feverish with the taint's infection, he only remembered distorted images and warped voices, words that lost their sense on the way from his ear to his mind, grey all around him, his body on fire, so much pain. But he still knew Anders had been there, the whole time, carrying his limp body as Varric and Garrett got rid of the darkspawn blocking their way. Because Carver remembered—the bitter smell of elfroot, prominent and comforting beneath the stink of decay surrounding them and clogging his throat, cold, soft, careful hands, brushing hair away from his forehead, pressing against the back of his neck and feeling his pulse, the wave of a healing spell caressing over him, unable to remove the taint from within his blood, but still helping, granting him a few moments of lucidity before he was taken under again.

Carver flushed and cleared his throat, looking at his boots. He had never understood what Anders had seen in Garrett. But then again he had never understood what  _ anybody _ had seen in his brother, so it was a moot point—because Garrett always got what he wanted; the girls, the gold, the glory, the men. And Carver? Well, Carver didn't.

He scoffed at his drink, twirling it in his hand until a bit of the vile brew sloshed over the rim. There was no point in musing over the unfairness of his life right now. It was what it was, and Carver had to accept that. And, after all, he was a Grey Warden now, and a good one at that, judging by the fact that he was still alive. That had to mean something, right? Being a Grey Warden sounded far more honourable than being the Champion of Kirkwall, anyway.

“Carver.”

Carver froze, cursing his luck. He could've gone the rest of the evening without running into Anders, because Anders would no doubt want to talk about Garrett, and Maker forbid someone didn't show the same appreciation for Garrett bloody Hawke, bloody Champion of bloody Kirkwall. But now it was too late, Carver had missed the chance to shrink into the shadows, so he did what he did best, squared his shoulders and faced his opponent head on. He looked up—

And hesitated.

Anders looked—old. Sure, the better part of a decade had gone by since they saw each other last, but Andraste's flaming knickers, Anders looked like it had been far longer. There were bruises under his eyes and creases on his forehead, more than three day's worth of stubble covering his jaw and cheeks, crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, deep lines bracketing his mouth, and they didn't look like they came from too much laughing.

Anders smiled, wary and tired, settling against the wall next to Carver, their shoulders brushing.

“I do look that bad, don't I,” he joked meekly, and Carver shook his head slowly, only now realizing he had been staring without returning the greeting.

Anders laughed, and it carried an edge of bitterness.

“No need to lie, Carver,” he sighed, rubbing thumb and forefinger over his eyes. “Contrary to what everyone believes, I have looked into a mirror lately, and believe me when I say that I am as disappointed with the view as you are.”

“Disappointed,” Carver repeated, and it sounded hoarse. Quickly, he cleared his throat, turning away as he felt treacherous heat spreading on his cheeks. He caught sight of Oghren, who had found his next victim, a dwarf woman this time around, but from the looks of it she was giving him as good as she got, the pile of empty tankards in front of her almost as high as Oghren's.

Anders hummed, but didn't explain further, so they stood and watched the scene in front of them, Wardens cheering on the dwarf woman as she seemed to gain a lead over Oghren.

“What are you doing here,” Carver finally asked. For a moment that seemed to stretch out endlessly, there was no answer, and Carver felt his lungs burning with the need for air as he held his breath, frightened he would never receive an answer if he dared so much as breathe. He could feel Anders' gaze on the side of his face, burning and insistent, as if he was the one waiting for an answer.

But then, Anders turned away, and finally spoke.

“For the same reason Nathaniel and Philippe are here.”

His voice was quiet, and Carver almost didn't hear him, hadn't he waited so desperately for the words. He had assumed, of course—dreaded it, in fact. The answer he got shouldn't have felt as much as a blow to the chest as it did.

He released his breath, and nodded, silence falling over them again. The noise of the celebrating seemed oddly distant, as if Anders had erected a force field around them, shielding them from their surroundings. Carver looked at Nathaniel as he talked to the Warden Commander, his brows furrowed in concentration as the pored over a map of the deep roads. He looked at Philippe, standing at Oghren's shoulder, laughing because Oghren's opponent had risen from her chair, raising her last tankard in triumph as those around her cheered. He looked at Emmanuelle, clasping Philippe's shoulder as they smiled at one another companionably. He looked and looked as tankards were raised and toasts were made, as they cheered and promised to never forget.

It all seemed so pointless.

“Does my brother know,” Carver asked, even though he knew the answer, had known it since he had first caught sight of Anders in this room, wearing the grey and blue of the Wardens.

“No,” Anders said and reached for Carver's tankard. Carver didn't protest.

 

*

 

Carver whirled around, cleaving his broadsword through the group of 'spawn surrounding him, beheading a genlock and carving deep wounds into the two hurlocks' torsos. Next to him, Kurt made a sound of startled delight, nocking another arrow before he released it to embed itself in a genlock archer's eyesocket.

Ahead of them, Ava was laughing, the cruel, bloodthirsty sound bouncing off the walls and high ceiling to be carried deeper into the tunnels, until it reached the very last 'spawn in the very deepest thaig, a harbinger of their imminent doom.

Carver smelled ozone, saw clouds, fat and grey and heavy with rain, gathering beneath the ceiling, and with a crack and a roll of thunder, lightning struck a crowd of 'spawn. He watched as they seized, then crumpled to the ground, and smelled burning flesh and singed hair. The last screams and grunts of the 'spawn died down.

“All dead,” the call went through the group until it was answered by their Commander ahead. There was a whispered incantation and Carver felt the wash of a healing spell giving him new energy, coaxing his strained muscles to uncurl and closing the small scratches and shallow wounds he had suffered. When he turned around, he caught Anders' gaze, receiving a nod as response, one corner of Anders' mouth twisting up in the shadow of a smile.

Carver looked away.

“All right.” Ava had resurfaced, Alistair at her heels, and she clapped her hands to get her Wardens' attention. “We've reached Caridin's Cross. Eat, drink, don't take too long.”

A tense silence followed her words, the Wardens glancing at one another, but mostly at Nathaniel, Philippe and Anders. Nathaniel did not seem to mind the staring, while Philippe smiled tiredly, sheathing his sword and nodding. Anders stared right ahead, into the gaping maw of the tunnel leading towards the Dead Trenches, further into the Deep Roads, to the oldest, most darkspawn-infested thaigs.

This was the moment they parted ways and they all knew it. Ava would take them further south, while Nathaniel, Anders and Philippe would travel east, until their feet stopped carrying them, until their provisions ran out, until one of the crude, tainted darkspawn blades tore through their throats and took their last breath.

Carver looked away from Anders, shaking his head as Kurt offered him a piece of bread and some cheese. He didn't feel hungry, for his stomach was in knots and a lump had grown in his throat, almost suffocating him. This felt so wrong.

Kurt merely shrugged, but when he glanced at Anders, Carver knew that he knew.

Kurt's eyebrows rose, a silent inquiry, but again Carver shook his head. He did not want to talk, for what was there to say? Nothing could undo this, no words would silence the Calling and no potion could wash away the taint. There was nothing to be done.

There was no command, but they all knew when the moment had arrived. Carver felt his heart beat in his throat, his breath shortening. There was an ache in his chest that he remembered well—from Father, Bethany, Mother. He felt empty and numb, his feet moving all on their own so he could join the half circle that had formed around the three men, which stood with their backs turned towards the other Wardens.

Solemn silence enveloped them, and even the darkspawn had fallen silent, their ever-present shrieks mute for once, and the deepstalkers with their skittering feet and screeching yowls stayed away, as if they felt the gravity of this moment like the Wardens did.

The Commander was the first to speak.

“In Peace, Vigilance.”

“In War, Victory,” Carver said, a choir of voices around him that fell silent immediately. Only three remained; three words, spoken by three men, three voices reciting the last part of the oath, “In Death, Sacrifice.”

Ava's voice was quiet, but to Carver it seemed incredibly loud and his hands clenched into fists, the joints of his gauntlets protesting.

“Know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

Nathaniel was the first to move, taking a step towards the tunnel ahead of them, joined soon after by Philippe. Only Anders hesitated, fingers flexing around his staff, his shoulders a straight, tense line. He took half a step forwards, but then stopped, turning. Next to Carver, Kurt shifted, his elbow brushing against Carver's. But Carver ignored him, his gaze remaining on Anders, imploring, begging, without words that he would turn around, look at him, give Carver this last moment, allow him to say goodbye.

“Carver,” Anders said, his head only slightly turned, features hidden by shadows. “Tell your brother—“ he never finished his sentence, never made this last request. Yet, Carver understood, and he nodded, even though those words cut into him like a ragged blade.

“I will,” he promised, and a noise tore from Anders' throat, half a laugh and half a sob, primal and wanting and heartbreaking.

Then he was gone.

 

*

 

“Nathaniel Howe,” Hawke said, “is going to die a very slow, very painful death.”

He put his tankard down with a loud clunk to underline the words, ale sloshing over the rim, another stain on the table's sticky surface. Varric glanced at Isabela over his cards, putting one down on the table's centre. There was only a quick twist of Isabela's mouth to show him that she was equally worried for Hawke.

It had been months since Anders had left and Varric got the message that Anders had been seen in Ferelden, leaving Amaranthine for the Grey Wardens' headquarters, Vigil's Keep. Since then, Hawke had not stopped cursing Nathaniel Howe and making threats on his life while accusing Anders of being a coward for running off to Ferelden with his tail between his legs.

“Everything was a lie,” Hawke said.

And, “he used me.”

Or, “love. I bet he never knew what love really is.”

And sometimes, “Fenris was right. I should have never trusted him.”

Varric didn't protest. He had tried, in the beginning, had asked Hawke to give Anders the benefit of the doubt, because surely there would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Anders' behaviour. People didn't just up and leave without a good reason, did they?

“Yes,” Hawke had said then. “And the reason is that he's a lying, cheating bastard.”

Varric didn't blame Hawke, not really. Anders had left without a word, and Hawke had turned insane with worry first, only to turn bitter later. And with each day that passed without a message from Ferelden, not even a letter saying, “I am sorry,” Hawke's eyes turned darker and his words more hateful.

Varric had to admit it was getting harder and harder to believe that Anders wasn't the cruel, cold-hearted bastard Hawke made him out to be.

 

*

 

Carver squinted, eyes turned towards the horizon where the shadow of Kirkwall rose out of the water like a looming monster from the depths of the sea.

He didn't like coming back here. It felt—odd. Kirkwall had never really become his home, and he had not returned here since his very first Deep Roads expedition, not even when Garrett's letter arrived, telling him of what had happened to mother. Carver still remembered the message's last words, ink smeared, dark dots on the parchment, letters shaky.

_I was too late_.

Carver really didn't like the idea of going back to Kirkwall. But when the Warden Commander gave an order, you better followed it, cousin or not. There was no point in trying to argue with Ava Amell, it only made the whole ordeal worse, and depending on how hard you resisted, there could also be a lot of pain for you in stock.

Which was why Alistair had come with them, too, even though he hated boats, as he was all too willing to tell Carver again and again between retching.

“I do so hate boats,” Alistair moaned and wiped a hand over his mouth.

“Yes, you've said that before,” Carver told him through grinding teeth. In the distance, he could make out the twin statues of covering slaves guarding the Gallows. He remembered sailing past them once before, looking up through the cargo hatch of another boat to find them staring down at him with their twisted faces eternally frozen in a grimace of grief and pain.

Alistair shrugged, a green hue to his face, and he grimaced again, one hand clutching his stomach.

“I'll keep on saying it until we're off this blighted thing,” he promised and then leaned over the railing again, noisily emptying his stomach of its already meagre contents.

 

*

 

As much as Carver had changed, the Hanged Man hadn't, and somehow, it was strangely comforting. It still stank of piss and vomit, there were even more stains of dubious origins, the brew Corff served hadn't even improved one bit and the patrons were as drunk and shady as ever.

“You would think the Champion of Kirkwall prefers something that stinks less of desperation and vomit to spend his free time at,” Alistair mused, frowning curiously at a dark stain beneath his feet.

“Not if you knew my brother,” Carver said and nodded at a table at the far end of the room. The whole group of Garrett's friends was present, Garrett seated on the head of the table, Varric and Fenris at each of his sides, cards in hand, while Isabela leaned in over Merrill's shoulder, whispering something that made her blush and giggle. Aveline, still in her Guard Captain's armour, frowned, pulling her hand closer to her chest to hide her cards from Varric's prying eyes. Carver remembered nights like this, Garrett holding court like the king of his band of misfits, Carver watching from the sidelines as each and every one of them fell for his charm and wit, hanging on to his every word like he was a prophet of the Maker.

“Oh, I know that one,” Alistair said, surprise audible in his voice.

Carver scoffed. “Figures.”

He was the first one to move and make his way across the tap room, ignoring the way the voices around him trailed off, laughter dying down with every step Carver took. After all, the armour was not really inconspicuous.

By the time he reached Garrett's table, all of them had already turned towards him, gaping at Carver with wide eyes. They all seemed surprised, even Varric although he had said often enough that there was nothing going on in Kirkwall that he didn't know of. It made Carver oddly gleeful, and he felt a smirk pull on his lips as he rested one hand on the back of Merrill's chair and nodded.

“Garrett.”

“Carver,” Garrett choked out and blinked, then jumped to his feet, and the next thing Carver knew, he was enveloped in Garrett's arms, feeling his thick beard scratch against his temple as Garrett pounded his back with his hand and squeezed until it was getting harder to breathe. It took longer than anticipated to free himself, and Carver's face was flushed when he finally shoved Garrett away, knowing without looking that Kurt was grinning in that infuriating way of his when he thought Carver was doing something adorable.

Thankfully, Alistair cleared his throat before Garrett could say something that made them think about things they didn't want to be reminded of—like them being the only two remaining members of the Hawke family.

“Champion,” Alistair greeted and nodded, hesitating when he looked at the others. “And... friends? It's a pleasure to meet you. Again.”

Garrett's face split nearly in half with his grin as he looked Alistair up and down, and Carver felt something hot and unforgiving pooling in his stomach, rising like bile to his throat; bitter words and accusations trying to fight their way out to cut into Garrett like a blade of anger. But then he saw it, for a split second, there was a flash of pain in Garrett's eyes, which lingered on the two griffons spreading their wings on Alistair's chest. Carver swallowed and turned his gaze away.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Garrett purred, and then raised his voice to call out to Corff. “A bottle of your best and enough tankards for all of us. This calls for a celebration.”

 

*

 

Kurt passed out after barely an hour, one limp hand still cradling his tankard, his chin resting on his chest. Carver had returned from a quick piss in the alley behind the tavern to find someone had used charcoal from the fire to crudely draw a cock on Kurt's face.

“Very funny,” Carver had said and wiped it away, glaring at Isabela, who was innocently picking her nails at the other end of the table.

Alistair had excused himself soon after, claiming to be exhausted from the long trip, and dragged the unconscious Kurt out of the tavern and towards Hightown, ignoring Garrett's offers to stay with him at the Amell home.

Carver had an odd sense of déjà vu, sitting here again, surrounded by Garrett's companions, nursing a tankard of Corff's brew as they laughed and joked. Varric had begun telling stories of Garrett's heroic quests, occasionally being interrupted by the hero himself when certain details became too unbelievable even for people who actually knew Garrett Hawke and his odd luck of finding a way out and into impossible situations.

“And that, Junior, is how we cleared the Bone Pit of a High Dragon and saved the day,” Varric finished, looking at Carver expectantly.

Carver rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What, do you expect me to cheer?”

Varric chuckled, settling back in his chair and raising his hands in a placating gesture.

“Easy there, little Hawke,” he said, continuing to talk over Carver when he made to protest the nickname, “say, are all Wardens so grumpy or does it happen only after you join the order?”

Carver frowned. “What do you mean?”

Varric smiled and then shrugged, obviously enjoying making Carver curious.

“Well, it's not like your sort is very cheerful, most of the time. Funny thing really, the last few months before Anders left, I considered starting to call him Grumpy instead.”

Carver bit the inside of his cheek, seeing right through the ruse, and he opened his mouth to tell Varric to keep his big nose out of the Grey Wardens' business, but was interrupted by Garrett sliding into the seat next to him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders to pull Carver against his side.

“Yes, Carver,” Garrett said, his breath smelling very similar to Oghren's. “Tell us, how is Anders doing? Is he enjoying the bad Ferledan weather and the stink of wet dog?”

Carver opened his mouth in protest, but Garrett squeezed his shoulder, and he felt it even through the plate that covered it. When he looked up, he found Garrett's eyes had turned dark, anger boiling within, and his words were laced with enough poison to kill a bronto as he went on, “was it easy for him to return home?”

He spat the last word with enough disgust to make Carver want to punch him. He had expected this conversation, if you might call it such, but differently. With Anders leaving without explaining himself, Carver had thought to find Garrett mad with worry and eager for news of Anders—not bitter and so full of hate.

“Was it easy to return to the Wardens' ranks?” Garrett continued and then parted his lips in a cruel grin, teeth glinting like shards of glass. “I bet it wasn't too hard as soon as he found his place; on his back, spreading his legs for whomever asks nicely enough.”

Anger, hot and corrosive, boiling in Carvers stomach. He could feel it raising to his throat, felt his hands tremble and curled them into fists, palms clammy with cold sweat. A tense silence had fallen over the group, charged with anticipation, and Carver felt all of their gazes on the two of them, the others holding their breath as they waited for something to happen.

None of them protested when Garrett spat his hateful words, none of them told him to stop as he dragged Anders through the mire, calling him a whore, and Carver wondered how often they had listened to these kind of words, these accusations, without trying to defend someone who had fought at their side, had healed their wounds and saved their lives more than once. Carver felt his heart beat against the inside of his ribcage, fuelled by rage as he ground his teeth to dust trying to hold back his words so as not to spill the Order's secrets, and he took deep breaths to work against the flood of fury threatening to overwhelm him.

“Tell me, little brother,” Garrett whispered, voice sickeningly sweet, his breath hot and rancid as it brushed over Carver's cheek. “Did you enjoy it when Anders finally let you into his bed? Don't lie now, Carver, I've seen the way you look at him.”

His smirk was an ugly thing, worse than a 'spawn's, all teeth and maliciousness.

“Did you think I wouldn't notice? Wouldn't see how you'd clench your hands to fists and start brooding when Anders didn't give you the attention you so desperately craved?”

Carver felt cold, suddenly. The fire of anger burning inside him fell in on itself, turned to embers to ashes to dust, made ice spread through his body, and something else took the fury's place; hatred, cold and so much sharper than the anger, which made everything blurry and distorted.

And then there was the disgust. The disgust that made him look at Garrett and see something far more despicable than the ugliest broodmother the Deep Roads had to offer.

“Hawke,” Aveline warned, her voice sharp, and Carver turned to look at the others, saw them glance worriedly from Garrett to Carver, Aveline's hands already propped up on the table as if she was readying herself to jump over it and throw herself between the two brothers like a human shield, and Carver had no doubt that out of sight, Isabela was palming a set of hidden daggers.

Merrill's already big eyes were even bigger, and Fenris had risen from his seat, crouching slightly to join a fight they were all expecting to happen.

Carver wanted to laugh, felt it tugging at the corners of his mouth and bubbling in his stomach, but he held it back and slowly rose to his feet instead.

“I think,” he said, brushing invisible lint from his arms, not bothering to hide the coldness in his voice, “my brother's had enough to drink and should go home to rest now. I'm sure you agree.”

His left hand came down hard on Garrett's shoulder, squeezing until Garrett winced and glared up at him, shooting daggers from his eyes.

Varric shook his head, his smile apologetic. “I think you know we can't let you do that. He hasn't been the most diplomatic for the last few months, but it wouldn't do to find the Champion of Kirkwall dead in his bed tomorrow. Poor Bodahn wouldn't survive the shock.”

Carver sighed but pulled Garrett to his feet nonetheless, not letting go of his arm even when he twisted it in Carver's grip.

“Stop me if you want to,” he said, nonchalant, and dragged Garrett along towards the door.

No crossbow bolt found its way into his back, and no thrown dagger embedded itself between his shoulder blades. Carver took it as a good sign and let the door fall shut behind him.

 

*

 

“Messere Hawke,” Bodahn protested as Carver pushed a squirming Garrett up the stairs towards the bedrooms, but Carver talked over him.

“My brother needs his rest, Bodahn. I'm sure he has very important Champion business to attend to in the morning.”

“I—“ Bodahn began weakly and faltered under Carver's glare, scuttling away finally with a last nod and worried glance, which left Carver to continue ushering his brother up the stairs, ignoring his protests and threats with familiar ease.

“Andraste's tits, Carver, if you won't stop I'll turn you into a piece of charcoal, brother or not!”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe Garrett had gotten soft in his big mansion, but no matter the reasons, it took Carver less time than expected to grab Garrett's wrist and twist his arm behind his back, relishing in the surprised and pained yelp it drew from Garrett.

He didn't even deign him a verbal response before the door fell shut behind them and Carver shoved Garrett further into the room, blocking his way out.

“What is your problem?!” Garrett began immediately, rubbing his abused shoulder.

Carver took a deep breath, feeling irritation gnaw on his nerves, the tips of his gauntlets clacking against his palm as he curled his hands into fists, trembling at his sides.

“My problem,” he hissed, and watched with malicious glee as Garrett's eyes widened, confusion and shock written all over his features.

“My problem,” he repeated and took a step forwards, “is that you think you know everything. That you think you know why Anders left without a word, that the fault must be with him. That you more willingly assume that he betrayed you than think that maybe, maybe it was out of his hands, that he couldn't stay, even though he wanted nothing more than that.”

His tone was sharp, unforgiving, every sentence striking at Garrett more surely and painfully than the blow with a fist, and he saw the doubt take root, saw it spread in his brother even when Garrett squared his shoulders and raised his chin, opening his mouth to speak. But Carver barrelled on relentlessly, not offering an inch.

“I know what you want to say: 'he could have told me!', and trust me when I say he couldn't.”

He smiled, but it wasn't warm or nice. It was condescending, cruel, and Carver liked how it felt on his face. “Because there are things that have nothing to do with the blighted Champion of Kirkwall, things far greater and far more important than you, things far more powerful.”

He stabbed a finger at Garrett from a distance, watching as Garrett gaped at it as if it was a blade.

“You think you're so important, but in the great scheme of things you're nothing. Even to the Grey Wardens, you're nothing until you're useful for our cause, so trust me when I tell you that you are lucky that I am your brother. Because every other Warden would leave you to keep on ignorantly spewing your hatred to those unfortunate enough to listen.”

Carver looked at Garrett, saw him grinding his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching, the vein in his neck pulsing, a flush on his cheeks, from embarrassment or anger or shame, Carver didn't know or care, for he was far too gratified over having been able to make Garrett shut his mouth for once in his life.

“Because maybe, there are things you don't know. Maybe, there are things you would never understand, because you'd have to be a Grey Warden to do so.”

He took a deep breath, feeling his pulse in his own veins, hearing it in his ears. It was a bad idea, a very bad idea, to spill the Wardens' secrets like this. It was risky and dangerous and incredibly stupid, and Carver shouldn't care what his brother thought of Anders, because it was far too late for the both of them. Anders' time had come, and there was nothing—and no one, not even Garrett Hawke—that could turn Anders away from the path he had had to take.

But Carver still found himself standing here, opposite Garrett, and opening his mouth to speak.

“And maybe, when you become a Warden you start hearing a song, and when the song gets too loud you know it's time for you to go down in the dark.”

Garrett swallowed, his eyes glassy as his gaze flickered from one of Carver's eyes to the other, brows furrowed as he tried to understand.

“Carver, I don't—,” he said, and Carver growled in frustration, scratching a hand through his hair, ignoring the stinging in his scalp as hairs caught in the joints of his gauntlets.

“I can't tell you more, but just think about it when you're sober, use that giant head of yours and _think_!”

Carver exhaled loudly, rubbing his temples to get rid of the headache announcing itself behind them. He was tired, so tired of this. Garrett wasn't the only one who had lost someone, he wasn't the only one who had looked at Anders' smile and seen something breathtakingly beautiful. But Garrett had been hurt, because he could never understand, not without having gone through the Joining, not without having heard the whispers in his dreams, and his ignorance had paved the way for petty, bitter hate.

“You didn't deserve him,” he whispered, not caring if Garrett heard him, because surely, Garrett already knew, there was no way he didn't. Even with his giant ego obscuring most of his view, Garrett could not have been that blind.

Finally, Carver raised his head, looking at Garrett again to find him standing with his shoulders slumped, his mouth pinched, hands clenching the sides of his robes.

“I can't tell you exactly why he didn't say goodbye, but maybe he thought you wouldn't let him go,” Carver said, not surprised when he heard how wary and exhausted he sounded. It was time to go, but there was still one thing left that he wanted to say.

"Maybe he thought you'd suffer less if you believed he had betrayed you.”

Even when Garrett had tried to hide it, Carver had seen—thighs brushing against each other, quick, secretive glances, hidden smiles, fingertips trailing the lines of lyrium covering a tanned arm.

“Maybe he thought you'd be less adverse to go and fuck the elf then.”

Garrett looked away, swallowed compulsively, fingers twitching where they held on to his robes as if this was the only thing keeping him standing.

Carver waited for a moment, letting the uncomfortable, reproachful silence weight Garrett down. Waited and waited just for the last moment to place this last barb.

“Maybe he even counted on it."

Garrett flinched as if Carver had struck him, and refused to look at him even when Carver turned and walked out of the door.

 

*

 

He found Alistair waiting for him on the other side of the door, leaning against the banister opposite the room, arms crossed over his chest. Carver stopped in his tracks, feeling his heart starting to speed up its rhythm, hammering away at his ribs as if it wanted to break free.

For a moment he just stood and stared at the senior Warden, unable to form words, because he knew there was nothing he could say to explain himself, to excuse what he had done, even if the bit he had given away was cryptic at best, but for some, it was enough, and if the Commander found out—

“Funny thing,” Alistair drawled, looking away from Carver to peer at his gauntlets as if he had found something peculiar sticking to them. “I hadn't expected to see Bodahn again. In the Free Marches at that. In the middle of the night.”

He looked up then, brows furrowed, and cocked his head.

“Pounding on my bedroom door as if an Archdemon is after him, close to hysterics as soon as I let him in, babbling something about the Champion of Kirkwall being about to be murdered by his younger brother. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

Carver cleared his throat in a futile attempt to get rid of the lump in his throat, then shook his head.

“Nothing as entertaining as fratricide going on here, I'm afraid. Just some siblings butting their heads. The usual. You know.”

Alistair's eyebrows arched and he pursed his lips.

“I really don't. But since you're not covered in blood, I'm willing to believe you. Now,” he nodded towards the stairs, “let's get to bed. We actually came here for things besides your heart-warming family reunion.”

Carver nodded and walked quickly towards the stairs, eager to leave this mess behind and get some sleep. But he came to an abrupt stop when Alistair called his name silently, and froze with one hand on the banister, unable to turn around. So Alistair had heard.

“I won't tell her if you don't,” he said, and Carver swallowed, nodding jerkily, the relief making him dizzy.

Alistair sighed, a defeated sound, and Carver heard his armour clink as he shook his head at himself.

“I'm getting soft. Ava will have my head if she ever finds out.”

There was a pause, followed by a quick inhale of breath that came close to a yelp.

“Or other bits. Maker, don't let her take my other bits,” Alistair pleaded, his voice having reached an oddly high pitch, and Carver, to his surprise, couldn't help but laugh.

 

*

 

“Why am I not surprised,” Alistair mumbled, one hand over his brows to shield his eyes against the sun as he squinted at a distant figure waiting at the edges of Lowtown that lead towards the Wounded Coast. Carver glared at Kurt, who was about to open his big mouth and comment, but thankfully shut up, settling for a cheeky grin instead when Alistair turned towards Carver, cocking his head at where Garrett was standing, waiting for them.

“Take care of that, we'll wait,” Alistair said and Carver nodded, walking towards Garrett at a smart pace.

He nearly recoiled when he saw Garrett's face, and for a moment, he was reminded of an evening not long ago, when he was standing in the Tapster's Tavern's taproom, finding himself face to face with Anders.

Garrett looked about the same now, or maybe even worse. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, his hair greasy, his beard scruffy enough to almost hide the pinched line of his mouth. His robes, the same he had worn when Carver had seen him last, were dishevelled and dirty, and Carver had the suspicion that Garrett hadn't changed his clothes since then even once.

“You need a bath,” he said instead of a greeting, and Garrett laughed, a short, bitter sound.

“Charming as ever,” Garrett said, his voice raspy and hoarse. Carver shrugged.

“I'm doing my best.”

Garrett hummed, then cleared his throat and looked at something past Carver's shoulder, worrying his bottom lip as if he was searching for words. Carver waited.

“I thought about what you told me,” Garrett said finally, still not looking at Carver, but he didn't particular mind—he already felt awkward enough as it was, thank you very much.

“And I understand. I think.”

“That's good.”

Garrett nodded, the awkward silence returning, full of all the things left unsaid for too many reasons. It made Carver uncomfortable, and he fidgeted, finally giving in and shaking his head at his own stupidity. He had expected to stay angry at his brother forever, or at least for much longer, but when he said the pitiful state Garrett was in, his resolve crumbled.

“In Death, Sacrifice,” he said, and Garrett blinked at him, so confused that he forgot to be embarrassed. He was about to open his mouth and destroy the moment with a stupid remark, Carver could see it, so he hurried to continue, talking over whatever Garrett was about to say.

“It's part of the Grey Wardens' oath. Motto. Take your pick.” He shrugged, and this time it was him who couldn't meet his brother's gaze, staring at the horizon, the rising sun painting the sea orange.

“The meaning seems obvious to outsiders, but it's about more than simply sacrificing your life for the greater good.”

Now he did look at Garrett, hoping to see understanding in his eyes.

“It's about sacrificing the life you _could_ have had. It's not only about death, it's more than that. It's family and friends. A home. _Love_. A life that goes beyond spending your days in the Deep Roads carving your way through darkspawn hordes.”

His gaze dropped to his boots, and he found dust clinging to the leather, the tip rubbed raw. He'd have to replace them soon.

“In the end, we die alone, with our loved ones far away and out of reach.”

Silence, once more. Lately, all of their conversations seemed to go that way; haltingly and trailing off into pauses heavy with accusations never made and things never said, secrets that had to be kept and feelings never admitted.

Eventually, Garrett cleared his throat, nodding once, jerkily.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Carver huffed.

“I didn't do it for you,” he said, but Garrett didn't seem surprised.

“I know.”

Carver licked his lips, hesitating for a moment as he remembered Anders' turned back, his slumped shoulders, his words heavy with regret, his voice cracking as he made a last request in the hopes that maybe, against all odds, Garrett would get to hear the words he never spoke and forgive him.

“He really did love you,” Carver said.

Garrett looked up, tears brimming his eyes, voice cracking.

“I know.”

 

*

 

He didn't remember. There had been something before, but he didn't remember. There was only darkness and the voices, the voices in his head, singing, whispering. A language he had never studied but still understood, still knew like a child knew its mother's voice.

There was no fondness to the words, no endearment, no welcome, yet it felt right to hear them, made him feel complete.

The whispering, it never stopped, same as the song, singing, singing, singing in his mind.

There had been something before.

It didn't matter any longer.


End file.
